Magnolia
by Lord Cellytron
Summary: New Summary Alert! In the year 1866, a rather unfortunate doctor encounters pain, hardship and romance with the most illustrious of cross-dressers. AU, C/K Slash. Chapter 6 up 7/15!
1. Chapter One: Afternoon at the Shack

**Cumbersome and lengthy Author's note.  
  
Good Day, gentlemen. What you are about to read is my first attempt at a M*A*S*H fanfiction. It was concocted in my twisted little mind on a hot summer night, inspired by repeated listenings to the "Samurai Trooper" theme and "Citizen Erased" by Muse. I couldn't make this stuff up if I tried.   
  
What we have here is an AU fic, the M*A*S*H cast almost 100 years before the Korean Police Action we all know and love. I decided to take the characters and stick them onto degrading but entertaining Southern/Northern stereotypes of the Civil War era. They fit surprisingly well, and I'm amazed at how they still retain their dignity.   
  
By all accounts, this is a slash fic. Fluff. Good, clean fun.  
  
There are a few canonical gripes I'm sure this story presents, so I implore you to think of it as sort of the cast of M*A*S*H puts on a play. It's an interesting turn on my favorite show, but it's not to be taken too seriously. As I said above, it's slash. Come on. At least I tried to write a sort of plot before the squishiness comes along. ^_^   
  
Also, the POV is sort of omnipresent. And the narrator actually changes speaking styles with the progression of the story. Why? Hell if I know.  
  
I hope you enjoy this fic.   
  
Adieu.  
  
-Chibi Cel-Chan  
  
***  
  
"These is worrysome times, boy. Worrysome times."   
  
The voice of Ole Doc Potter lazily sliced through the thick haze of a Southern Georgia afternoon. 'Twas the kind of afternoon one would try to forget come wintertime, because it represented all that was bad about the oft-revered summer months. Indeed, this was not an afternoon for pickin' berries, or for sittin' in the shade sippin' a long cold glass of Ma's lemonade. 'Twas not an afternoon for childhood schemes.. or for ladies of any kind. The women of the county had long retired to their sitting rooms, their cool bedchambers and their large, lavishly painted fans.   
  
'Twas instead, a day for tryin' to think of other things. Things that begot conversation; but not very stimulating conversation. No talk of the war. No talk of the summer of '42 and Miss Nellie Sinders who always had a smile and could put any man on his knees. No talk of anything cool or refreshing, either. Pinin' for a chill wind was shameful. No man did it. No man thought, either, to evade the heat by dressing sensibly. Things like that weren't done in those days.   
  
Creakin' back and forth, back and forth, Ole Doc Potter momentarily considered going in to the house, off the dilapidated white-flecked porch he hadn't got 'round to repaintin'. His rockin' chair moved in a careless rhythm, a soft accompaniment to the steady whittling of the boy seated on the floor next to him.   
  
"Worrysome times, indeed." Ole Doc Potter repeated. Wasn't like he was in any hurry to elaborate. He'd likely say it 2 or 3 more times yet.   
  
"Sure are, sir." The boy agreed, wiping his brow with the back of his hand.   
  
Ole Doc Potter frowned down at the boy, with his spectacles, cover-alls and tattered shoes. Sittin' on the floor like a child, whitting what looked like a bear out of a stick.   
  
Still, ain't no use in complainin'. No one minded the boy's immaturity, and many of the ladies even found it endearing. Besides, the boy was one of the few in the town who could read, write and use a printin' press.   
  
Why, when the heat wasn't seepin' into everyone's brains and slowly roastin' 'em to a crisp, Ole Doc Potter was awful proud of the boy he'd adopted. Now he seemed like a nuisance, hangin' on everybody an' whistlin' like a damn fool, but he very often deserved the nickname "Real Aw-fun Dog-goned Accurate'n Right", or Radar for short. Ole Doc never thought it made too much sense, but that was the South for you.   
  
"Worrysome times." He repeated once more.   
  
Creak, creak, went his chair.   
  
"Why do you say that, sir?" Radar asked. Never called Ole Doc "Pa".  
  
Creak, creak.   
  
"What'n the name of Utcher Skillcat do ya mean, son? What do ya see that ain't troublesome? Yankees an' Rebs s'pposed t'be all friendsome now. S'pposed t' sit 'round the porch with the Yankees, sharin' our brandy an' women."   
  
"Ah, sir."   
  
"Don't git me wrong, boy. This war took many of our fine young boys. I seen more blood'n I ever seen afore. I'm pleased as punch it's o'er. But I'm an old man, set in my ways. This wa'nt no war of 1812, and things is changin' fer the worse. Time'll come a man can't even spit t'bacco without hearin' some fancy doctor from New Inglun preachin' bout black lungs."   
  
"Gosh, sir. That's awful pretty. You ought to consider writing for the newspaper."   
  
"Peddlin' Penguins, boy." Ole Doc spat.   
  
Creak, creak.  
  
"Up the road." Radar said suddenly.  
  
Ole Doc turned his head and frowned. "I don't see nothin, boy."   
  
"Carriage."   
  
The older man sighed. That boy always did have a way of tellin' when comp'ny was comin. "Now who in hell would be comin' to call on a day like this?"   
  
"Possible it's a new doctor comin' to work for..."   
  
"What'd you say, boy?!" Ole Doc exclaimed, whippin' around to gape at the boy. Despite the fact that Radar had said "possible", Ole Doc was well aware of the fact that he only ever said "possible" out of modesty. Whoever he said was comin' was comin'. Never failed.   
  
"A new doctor comin'."   
  
"I didn't order no doctor!! We already got the largest concentration of medicine men in the entire country right here in Stellian, Georgia! What'n tarnation we need one more fer?!"   
  
"Well, sir... I thought you wanted someone to replace... Oh my sir.. are you telling me that that comment about needing another doctor was..."   
  
"Sarcasm!! It was sarcasm, boy!! Good lord, tell me you ain't serious!"   
  
"But sir.. with Army Man Burns locked in the closet.."   
  
"Shhh, quiet down boy!! Army Man Burns is in the HOSPITAL, boy. THE HOSPITAL."   
  
"Sorry, sir. With Army Man Burns in the Hospital, we are short one doctor. And after all... wasn't it your goal to make Ole Doc Potter's Medicine Shack, 4077 Blake Boulevard the best care... uh.. anywhere?"   
  
"Boy, stop speakin' in limericks!! This is serious! Now if you're truthful about that doctor a-comin', we're gonna need to get our rears in gear an' put on a good appearance!"   
  
"Yes, sir!" Radar exclaimed, jumping to his feet and sweeping the wood shavings off the porch. A moment later, he disappeared into the house and reappeared with a large, painted piece of wood that read "Medicine And Sure-fire Help (M*A*S*H) 4077". He happily ran into the yard and held it up as the carriage came put-putting into view.   
  
"What in tarnation you thinkin', boy?" Ole Doc muttered, beginning the long and arduous tribulation of getting out of his chair. "Askin' fer a new doctor."   
  
"They say he's very good, sir. Never once set a surgery tent on fire."  
  
"Now that's just exaggeratin', boy. Everyone sets those con-sarned things afire."   
  
"He's very well educated, sir. Oh boy sir, here comes the carriage."   
  
"Well hold the blasted sign up!!" Ole Doc exclaimed, jumping a bit. It almost seemed that the heat melted away in the excitement of the moment.   
  
Admittedly, the prospect of a new doctor to replace Burns (at least until the crazy coot broke through the closet door) was rather exhilarating. At the very least, it was possible that he might have some knowledge to contribute to the practice.. and as superfluous as he was in the post-war quiet, maybe he'd have some interestin' stories to tell. Or some good whiskey n' soda crackers.   
  
"Mmmmm, boy. Keep the sign up!!"   
  
"Yes sir. Oh boy, sir, it's stopping!"   
  
As Radar stated the obvious, the two of them got a great view of the carriage. Truly a breathtaking spectacle, it was. Not a trace of hog parts had been used in its uppity, pretentious construction. The driver was a sweaty, half-dead man wearing a blatantly Yankee-style top hat and a black tuxedo. The horses were pure white under all the Southern dust, and the disturbingly pristine metal passenger area was topped with a red cover of some sort.   
  
"My gosh, sir. This doctor must be really important to be travelling like this! I wonder if it's the right person! Maybe they didn't send a doctor at all.. What if I wasn't specific enough?!"   
  
"Quiet, boy. I betcha he's got peanuts in that luggage! Who cares if he's a doctor or not, 2 days with us and he'll be a natural."   
  
"You'd risk the life of a patient for peanuts?" Radar inquired somberly, but Ole Doc didn't seem to hear him.   
  
The carriage came to a complete stop, and an air of wonder and anticipation surrounded the entire area. Considering the heat and the mystery of the situation, Ole Doc and Radar assumed the passenger would give then a good minute or so of wondering before he concluded the excitement with his appearance. It only seemed proper to dramatize the situation beyond what it ordinarily deserved.   
  
So, a minute or so went by, and anticipation was thick in the air.   
  
And then, another minute.   
  
And another one.  
  
Someone coughed rather loudly in the distance.   
  
"Gosh, maybe I'm not holding the sign high enough.." Radar said quietly.   
  
"You're holdin' it up plenty high!" Ole Doc snapped. "What in tarnation is goin' on here?! Is someone dead in there?!"   
  
"Oh my, sir. I hope not! A dead doctor won't do us any good!"   
  
"Well, he'd make some good company for Burns, but other than that I have't agree."   
  
Silence.  
  
And suddenly, the driver twitched, looked about him and begin speaking in gibberish.   
  
"We're here, are we sir?! Where is it we were going again!? Oh goodness sir, this isn't Boston!! I must have taken a wrong turn somewhere! Please don't forgive me sir! Oh boy is it hot! Nay! Nay! Whoa, boy!!"   
  
"My god, man, what is the matter with you?!" A highly cultured voice interrupted the rambling. "Have you gone completely mad?!"   
  
Ole Doc and Radar looked at each other in confusion. The voice that came after the driver's was clearly that of the passenger. And he didn't sound any too Southern.   
  
"Golly gee whiz sir! Sure isn't hot, is it? Who is it I'm speaking to? The voice of the dead? Have you cured enough back there, sir? Stick a fork in you, bet you're done, aren't you?" The raving man erupted into hysterical laughter.   
  
"You insolent fool! Get up and open this door!"   
  
Radar slowly lowered the sign, scratching his head. "This is sure weird."   
  
"You need some help there, with whom?!" The driver screamed in the direction of the house.  
  
"OPEN THIS DOOR!!!" The passenger replied, careful emphasis on every furious syllable. From where Radar and Ole Doc were standing, they could see a hand wielding a black cane snap out of the window. The hand randomly flailed about, occasionally making contact with the back of the driver's head.   
  
"SIR! QUICK, GET DOWN! THE CROWS ARE BACK! I'LL GET THE RIFLE!!!" The driver yelled, jumping down off the seat and landing in a heap as one final swing connected with his ear and unexpectedly knocked him unconscious.   
  
Silence. Then, a careful unlatching of the carriage door.   
  
"Oh boy!" Radar cried, raising the sign back up giddily.   
  
Ole Doc frowned suspiciously. For bein' just a doctor, this man sure caused a lot of ruckus. And unless he'd misheard, that was a very yankee-soundin' accent.   
  
"Yankees ain't got no place at the M*A*S*H 4077th." He murmured, eyes narrow.   
  
"What, sir?!" Radar cried, smiling widely.   
  
"Didn't say nothin, boy. Hello there, stranger! We help you with somethin'?"   
  
The passenger carefully stepped out of the carriage, narrowly missing stepping on the driver's head. He frowned and then looked up at the house and the two men standing in its yard.   
  
Again, silence. A heavy silence that filled the entire yard. The man who emerged from the carriage looked pensively at his surroundings, inner ponderings filling his mind.   
  
This had to be the wrong place. It absolutely had to be. Surely this barely-standing structure of splintered wood and its' cro-magnon inhabitants was not the prestigious M*A*S*H 4077th that filled all the Boston medical journals with tales of its incredible feats. Surely this was not the location that he had spent over a year bargaining with his superiors just to get a glimpse of.   
  
It was not possible.  
  
*** 


	2. Chapter Two: Contractual Obligations fro...

***  
  
"Gosh, sir, he don't say much, does he?" Radar whispered conspiratorially.   
  
"Likely thinks he's too good for us. Lookit him now, summing up the situation, tryin' to decide if we're worth wastin' his breath on. Radar, why'n tarnation'd you call fer a yankee doctor?!"   
  
"What? I didn't... we just got the first applicant who came along! He must have been pretty eager to get at us, sir. I had a response within two months."   
  
"Two months? That's near impossible."   
  
"Exactly, sir. He must have jumped on it like a... colorful metaphor representing someone in an awful hurry."   
  
"Wonder what he's got up his sleeve, then. No harm in bein' friendly." Ole Doc murmured, scratching his chin. "You need some help, stranger?"   
  
The man this time appeared more lifelike, and he put on a rather charming, though very condescending smile and approached the two. "Ah, yes, good afternoon gentlemen. I apologize profusely for the racket my driver caused. I believe we may have lost our way."   
  
In person, he stood a good foot over Ole Doc and Radar. He was a large gentleman, wearing a similar top hat to the one that had been knocked off the comatose driver's head. In fact, he and the driver were nearly identically attired, except that this man's suit was slightly green and much stiffer. In comparison with Ole Doc and Radar, he truly appeared to be from a different world.   
  
"Well, we're just a coupla country bumpkins, but we'd be happy to try'n help ya out, Mr...."   
  
The man raised an eyebrow, but quickly regained his composure and smile. "I won't keep you a moment, gentlemen. You see, I'm looking for a rather well-known medical facility. Perhaps you've heard of it?"   
  
Ole Doc scrunched up his forehead, apparently in deep thought. Radar looked at him quizzically.   
  
"Well, that all depends now, friend. What's the name?"   
  
"Ah, well, it's referred to rather whimsically as--"   
  
"I ain't askin' about the name of the place. I'm askin' fer yer name."   
  
The man shifted uncomfortably, not at all eager to give these people any sort of details about himself. That he was part of the legendary Winchester family was not the sort of thing people in this sort of permanent debilitating mental condition could begin to comprehend. He felt an utter shame at even being present on the property of these parasites, and he silently thanked the gods for taking his personal driver off the face of the planet, so at least there were no influential witnesses to his public humiliation.   
  
"Didn't you hear me, friend? You got a name, or would you rather I make one up for you?"   
  
The man called Winchester raised his eyebrows, widening his blue eyes angrily. "You would not dare, sir."   
  
"You a bettin' man, friend?"   
  
"Certainly not! A Winchester only obtains financial compensation for---"   
  
"Hmm, a Winchester, eh? That'd be you, then?" Ole Doc interrupted.   
  
He sullenly lowered his head. "Indeed."   
  
"Well, then we're all gonna be friendly! Name's Sherman Potter, but round here they call me Ole Doc. This here's my boy Walter O'Reilly, but round here they call him Radar. He ain't really my boy, just lives here."   
  
"Ah. Enchanting." Winchester said with the same tone of voice one would use picking someone's liver out of a stew. "Well, now that that's settled, I would be most appreciative of any assistance you could spare."   
  
"Sure, darn near forgot about that. Now where'd you say yer goin'?"   
  
"It's referred to rather whimsically by the Boston Medical Association, a highly influential board of doctors on the East Coast, as 'Ole Doc Potter's Medicine Shack'. However, it's official name is M*A*S*H 4077, an allusion to what, I'm afraid I cannot say. It's rather cryptic."   
  
"Hmm. You said Ole Doc Potter?" Ole Doc asked.   
  
"I'm certain it's called that for reasons of satire."   
  
"Son, you mind telling me what my name is?"   
  
Winchester showed a great deal of anxiety at the question. In truth, he hadn't listened to a word the old man had said regarding his identity.   
  
"I.. erm... I beg your pardon, sir?"   
  
"You mean to say you can't remember my name."   
  
"I resent that!"   
  
"Well, son, resent it all you like, because my name is Ole Doc Potter and this is the M*A*S*H 4077th."   
  
The color drained from Winchester's face. It was several moments before he could speak again.   
  
"S... Surely... you... jest."   
  
"Fraid not, Winnie. My boy Radar here put out a request for a new doctor without my permission. I just found out about it a minute ago, and I was none too pleased with it."   
  
"But sir, you said..." Radar began.   
  
"This is not possible. The... conditions here are staggeringly..."   
  
"Conditions, schmonditions. This here's my office, we got operatin' tents out back. Set up during the war, we were the best chance for a young boy to survive. Our record's clean as a whistle."   
  
"This is all well and good... but I can not be expected to work in these conditions."   
  
Ole Doc shrugged. "That's fine with me. I didn't want you anyway. No offense, but your predecessor actually couldn't handle the conditions either. He cracked under the stress. Last thing i want is for that to happen again."   
  
Winchester's left eye twitched. "Pardon me, sir, but are you implying that you believe your... 'practice' would be better without someone of my... impressive medical standing?"   
  
"I ain't implyin' nothin. I'm outright sayin' it. We don't need no pretty boys in this town."   
  
"PRETTY BOYS?!"   
  
Radar looked terrified. "Sir, what's the matter with you?! Just a minute ago you said..."   
  
"Forget what I said! I don't need no doctor who's gonna fuss over getting his petticoat dirty."   
  
"How.. DARE YOU speak to me in that manner! I'll have you know that just a year before I foolishly answered your practice's distress call, I was the most celebrated physician in Boston!"   
  
"Well, turn me upside down and paint me chartreuse. Them Yankees musta spent a little too much time celebratin' if you're the best doctor they can come up with!"   
  
"I don't have to listen to this! Farewell, gentlemen, it was a true pleasure visiting your establishment. May it burn to the ground!" He turned on his heel and began to storm back to the carriage, but something stopped him.  
  
Probably the fact that his driver was still lying face-down on the road.   
  
"Something the matter, Winchester?" Ole Doc asked.   
  
"Nothing at all! My driver's just... exhausted."   
  
"Those cane-whippings'll really take a lot out of a guy." Ole Doc concurred.   
  
"We shall require a place to stay for the night. You will direct us to a suitable inn."   
  
"Ohh ho! Will we?!" Ole Doc exclaimed. Radar shook his head frantically and then grabbed Ole Doc by the arm.   
  
"Sir, this has gone too far. Now, we've got to think about this! That driver needs medical attention. And I called for this doctor... they wouldn't send just anybody to the 4077th! They wouldn't!"  
  
"What in hell are you saying, boy?!" Ole Doc sputtered.   
  
"That you're driving away our new doctor and a patient!" He stood as tall as he possibly could and trotted over to the carriage. Wringing his hands nervously, he watched Winchester look about angrily and then jumped back about 10 feet when their eyes met.   
  
"What is it you want?"  
  
"Um... well... sir, I want to apologize for Ole Doc Potter, sir. You see, he means well, he really does. And this is such a great place, it really is. Um.. but.. you see, he kinda... well, I guess you just got off on the wrong foot. He's a real nice man once you get to know him!"   
  
"It is my sincere wish that I never have the opportunity to determine this for myself. Now, will you help me find a place to stay?"   
  
"Of course, sir! Right here!"   
  
"Be serious, man."   
  
"I am serious! I'm serious as can be. You're our new doctor, and your driver needs help. You can show Ole Doc how good you are and I'm sure he'll change his mind!"   
  
"Explain to me why it is my concern whether or not 'Ole Doc' has a high opinion of my abilities."   
  
"Because you work for him now!"   
  
Winchester scoffed. "I most certainly do NOT!"   
  
"Yes you do. You returned your agreement to us, signed and notarized. And my uncle was a notary public, so don't think I don't know what that means. You officially work for us now, um.. sir."   
  
"I... listen, you simply don't understand the situation. I was under the impression that I was coming to work for a prestigious medical center!"   
  
"And you are!"   
  
"No."   
  
"If you hate it here that much, you can turn in your resignation after a week. But until then, you're contractually obligated to work here."  
  
"A week?! In these insufferable conditions?! You must be mad."   
  
"It's the law. You signed it yourself."   
  
Winchester stared angrily at the little man, and then turned away to look at the house. Disbelief washed over him as he surveyed its dismal condition. It would be impossible to remain there for a day, let alone a week.   
  
But then... there was his reputation. If he were to return to Boston so soon, even with the situation widely known, it would still mark his record, for the worse. Even the minimum time spent at this abysmal place would be a bright spot. Not to mention the hilarious stories he'd surely have to tell the council once it was all said and done. He could even see his name in the newspaper:  
  
"Charles Emerson Winchester III braves inhuman conditions at M*A*S*H 4077, lives to tell about it!"  
  
Surely... his magnificent breeding would allow him to maintain his spirit and sanity.. for only a week. It was only a week.   
  
And, if it really was the law...   
  
He sighed deeply, and then turned back to Radar. "Very well. Assuming you tell the truth about the contractual obligation."  
  
"Of course I do sir! Oh, yes sir. I wouldn't lie about something like that, sir. I very rarely find reason to lie at all."   
  
"I will warn you well ahead of time; at midnight on the 7th day, I will expect my resignation to be filed. I'd like to leave immediately."   
  
"Oh, of course sir. That's no problem, sir. Maybe by then our old doctor will be out of the closet." Radar grinned widely and waved to Ole Doc, gesturing for him to join them.   
  
"Well, on your way, are you Winchester?" He asked patronizingly.  
  
"Oh, no sir! He's staying with us!" Radar said happily.  
  
"What?!"   
  
"I found your charming personality too endearing to resist." Winchester said soberly.  
  
"Well what if I say I ain't in need of your 'services'?"   
  
"Oh, sir, that won't work. He signed a contract. He's got to stay for a week, and then he can file his resignation."   
  
Ole Doc glared sideways at Radar. "You gotta be kidding me. This lunatic's gonna be here for a whole week?!"   
  
"I assure you I won't be any trouble, Old Doc." Winchester said through clenched teeth.   
  
"Like hell!"   
  
"Sir, it's just a week. He can stay in the swamp, don't you think? In Burns' place?" Radar half-pleaded, half reasoned.  
  
"Aww crapsticks."   
  
"I knew you'd come through, sir! Now, how about that patient?"   
  
Winchester and Ole Doc looked at each other.   
  
"Well, Winnie, what do ya say?" Ole Doc asked.   
  
"I believe it would be more appropriate for you to refer to me in less fraternal terms, sir."   
  
"Fine then. In the war, they called me Colonel Potter. What do you want me to call you?"   
  
"My full name is Charles Emerson Winchester III."   
  
"Sounds a little stuffy to me, Chuckles."   
  
Radar no longer wondered why Winchester had so little hair.   
  
*** 


	3. Chapter Three: What passes as recreation...

***  
  
Stellian, Georgia was the sort of city that occasionally seemed to wake up, look at itself in the mirror and shriek. Like most moderate-sized Southern cities in 1866, it had its fair share of plantations and beautiful white houses with wealthy and well-behaved inhabitants. But, interspersed amongst the civil circles were several shady establishments and shacks much like the M*A*S*H 4077th. Saloons were common meeting places, even for those rich old coots who'd made a fortune with cotton, and classes seemed to dissolve in the taverns of Stellian. Men were men, and nothing separated them except an ability to play cards and hold liquor.   
  
It had been like that for as long as the two former army medics who sat at the table next to the bar could recall. The saloon was called "The Officers Club" and out of all the dives in town, it was the least likely one to ring with rifle fire at all hours of the night. Someone almost always stepped in and told the gun-toting drunkards to go home before they woke up the man who owned the place.   
  
From the outside, The Officers' Club was deceptive. It looked rather fancy, and while it was the most civilized saloon in town, it was still no place for someone of high society or a delicate constitution.   
  
Unfortunately, no one thought to mention this fact to Winchester as he stoically passed through the doors into the smoky air.   
  
It had been his intention to step out of his disgusting living quarters and partake of what little culture the town had, and possibly dull the ringing in his ears from the sounds of his bunkmates' poor excuse for singing. If only he hadn't professed his love for opera, he might not have this headache.   
  
***  
  
Imagine, he thought, being driven from a soggy, putrid tent with hardly a shred of dignity. The short man named Radar had, just hours ago, escorted him to a mucky section of land with a barely-standing structure stuck carelessly into the ground. Immediately, Winchester had a strong urge to turn around and run into the woods, fashion a raft out of fallen logs and paddle back to Boston. Of course, it would have made much more sense to get back in the carriage and drive like hell, but he'd sooner die than appear subservient in any way.   
  
As he followed the short man into the tent, he felt his throat close up at the sight. Not a moment had gone by before the two men who'd been engaged in an animated conversation stopped dead and looked Winchester up and down.  
  
"Hmm, Beej, looks like someone sent you a present. That Sears catalog has everything, doesn't it?" The man seated closest to the door remarked, his eyes glittering with interest.   
  
"Sorry, Radar, it isn't my size." The other man replied, shrugging. "Send it back."  
  
Radar looked flustered and he stepped aside, urging Winchester to step forward and identify himself. When it became apparent that that wasn't going to happen, he shook his head and smiled.   
  
"Um... Captains Pierce and Hunnicutt, may I present.. um... oh boy, I've gone and forgotten your name."   
  
Winchester glared at him and then turned ceremoniously to the men who'd been identified as Pierce and Hunnicutt. "Charles Emerson Winchester III. How do you do, gentlemen."   
  
"Well, to what do we owe the pleasure of your company? City never found any rats here last time, but you're welcome to look." Pierce said.   
  
"Oh, no, sirs. He isn't with the city. He's our new doctor."   
  
"New doctor?!" The two cried at once.   
  
Radar sighed. "You'd better get used to this, sir. No one was expecting you."   
  
"I see." Winchester muttered. "Yes, gentlemen, it's a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I regret that I shall have to infringe on your personal space for the next week. However, you needn't worry about me indulging in any variation of your sophomoric camaraderie."   
  
"Oh, yes, sirs. He'll only be here a week." Radar said, nodding vigorously.   
  
"Exactly what is he doing here in the first place? And why the hell didn't he show up when the war was still going on? We could have used him to put the patients to sleep and saved some of the whisky for ourselves." Pierce shook his head.   
  
"I'll have you know I had absolutely no part of the 'war' you so casually described. I was the most celebrated physician in Boston and had absolutely no intention of dignifying that laughable conflict with my presence."   
  
"Oh, a Yankee. Great, I've been looking for another reason to jump into the mud and drown myself."   
  
"Sir, that might be sort of pointless. He's only going to be here a week."   
  
"But what's he doing here in the first place?"   
  
"He's Army Man Burns' replacement."   
  
"Radar, we don't need any more doctors. I mean, this is a small town, there aren't that many catastrophes around here to warrant a 4-doctor practice." Hunnicutt said reasonably.  
  
"Gentlemen, while I'm still being referred to in the third person, allow me briefly to enlighten your fragile minds to the world beyond Stellian, Georgia. Multiple-doctor practices are truly the way of the future. One doctor has only one opinion and that can limit his performance. Multiple doctors have multiple opinions and thus their abilities are only as limitless as their collective brainpower. Thank you, Mr. O'Reilly, I believe I can manage from here."   
  
Radar frowned, nodded and left. As the door closed, Winchester and his roommates met eyes.   
  
The black-haired one, Benjamin Franklin Pierce (but always referred to as Hawkeye), was a striking man with an air of apathy that surrounded him. He spoke often, rarely was serious and although he'd angrily come into the service and secretly wished he'd just moved to Maine when the whim struck him, he had happily remained in Stellian after the war and worked at the 4077th now that the war was over and the worst problems anyone had these days were birthing babies and barroom injuries. It was good money. He imagined that even though he complained rather often, he could easily do this in the next two lifetimes and not grow weary of it.   
  
His companion, BJ Hunnicutt, was the more sensible and sober one of the two, but he still enjoyed humor as much as Hawkeye. He was married, so it turned out, and his wife lived at the other end of Stellian. It would have been hardly an hour's journey to her house but for some odd reason they insisted on staying in contact through the mail. It was a sort of tragically romantic scenario; being joined together by nothing but love, harmony and the United States Postal Service. He had a rather nice plantation and came from a bit more money than Hawkeye, but their friendship was obviously very strong, and built on very solid blocks.   
  
Very solid.   
  
"Well, BJ, my friend. It appears that we've got a new comrade for the time being." Hawkeye said speculatively as Winchester sat down on a surprisingly firm bed.   
  
"Think he'd mind if we go through his stuff?" BJ wondered.   
  
"I'm not sure. He might have some really character-degrading things in there. It could crush his social standing were he to be found out."   
  
Winchester heaved a deep sigh and plastered a patient smile on his face. It was difficult but he credited his exquisite genetic makeup.   
  
"Gentlemen, since we're only going to be together for a week, I would much prefer that this not be a time of hostility and aggression."  
  
"We'll be your friend if you'll be ours." Hawkeye said earnestly.  
  
"Scout's honor." BJ added.  
  
"Bosom buddies for life, we'll be."   
  
"Let us not confuse civility with friendship. We can be civil to one another without devoting any emotion." Winchester's stone-cold voice temporarily crushed their bubbly banter.  
  
"Charles, there's no need to hide your feelings. We have busy schedules, but we won't be so cruel as to deprive you of our company. Tomorrow night we can all go on a hayride together and learn each others' most intimate secrets." BJ said in a mock-cheerful tone.   
  
"I'll wear my pink bonnet!" Hawkeye exclaimed.   
  
"I'd better work on my curtsy." BJ mused.   
  
"Please, gentlemen. I find your brand of humor to be in atrocious taste."   
  
"You hear that, BJ? He thinks we were kidding."  
  
"Things can get pretty lonely around here, Charles. Sometimes you have to take what you can get." BJ said somberly, winking.   
  
***  
  
It all seemed to go downhill from there, Winchester realized, cutting his reverie short as, in shock, he realized that he was staring across the saloon at Hawkeye and BJ, seated at the table next to the bar.  
  
"Why if it isn't Chaaahles Emahson Winchestah the Thuhrd!" Hawkeye exclaimed rather drunkenly, and Winchester felt his face turn green at the sight.   
  
To hell with civility, he thought as he turned to leave. Quite a ruckus ensued in response to his attempted departure and the next thing he knew he was seated at the disgusting table with thoughts of taming a wild boar in his mind.   
  
"Good... evening.." He said pointlessly, because Hawkeye and BJ had already gone onto another subject, laughing uproariously. It was very possible that he could slip away, perhaps to the bar, without either of them noticing for a time.   
  
He quickly got to his feet and inconspicuously strode to the bar, seating himself atop a wooden stool toward the middle. It was only after he'd already felt his heart soar at being freed from the burdenous company of Pierce and Hunnicutt that he noticed the man he'd seated himself next to. His angry eyes were nearly buried under a faded and muddy confederate army cap, his skin was an atrocious red and he had a long brown beard. A snort escaped from his nose and he took in the view of Winchester seated uncomfortably next to him.  
  
"Seat's taken. Waitin' fer a frenna mine." He snarled.  
  
"I beg your pardon?"   
  
"Said seat's taken. So move yer keister."   
  
"You'd better do what he says, mister. He's expecting..." The bartender began, but Winchester waved him away, facing the angry drunken man.  
  
"You are most certainly the most uncouth person I have ever met, second only to my atrocious employer. If you expect ever to effectively communicate, I would encourage you first to decrease your alcoholic intake and secondly, spend a moment determining whether you would prefer to win your battles through perseverence and determination or through your malodorous drunken looming. Good day!"   
  
As he walked back to the table, Winchester realized that the familiar sound of an offended gasp was noticeably absent from the aftermath of his sparring. He must have missed it in all the ruckus.  
  
*** 


	4. Chapter Four: Ale Head

lj-cut text="rejnfgr!!!"  
  
He cavalierly seated himself at the now slightly more welcome table and graced his two drunken roommates with a cocky smile. "Well, certainly I put that brute in his place." He said loudly.   
  
BJ frowned, deep in drunken thought. He looked almost ready to speak, but before he could make a sound, Winchester continued with his unnecessary interpretation of the events.  
  
"I have no qualms about informing you both of my disgust at that man's etiquette. In Boston, he'd have been escorted out in a scornfully dishonoring fashion. It would have destroyed his reputation. But here, behavior such as that seems almost to be expected, and certainly not looked down upon, if your reactions are anything to go by."  
  
"Oh, Charles, believe me. We're just as disgusted as you. The man he's waiting for doesn't even have a reservation." Hawkeye said with exaggerated disgust.   
  
"And you know what that means? No place cards. He'll be laughed out the door, just you wait." BJ added.  
  
Winchester frowned. "I see you find this to be rather amusing."   
  
"Not at all, Charles. We find Frank Burns locked in the closet to be rather amusing. You're just charming company."   
  
"Might I presume that you're being facetious?"   
  
"If you're buying the drinks, you can presume anything you want." BJ announced.   
  
"I regret to disappoint you, gentlemen, but I have no intention of ingesting anything vaguely reminiscent of the swill you're so eagerly lapping."   
  
"Well then, what the heck did you come here for?"   
  
"I mistakenly thought it possible for this appalling excuse for civilization to have a redeeming value in this establishment."   
  
Hawkeye took a long swig of whatever was in his glass and boisterously slammed it back down on the table. "Congratulations, Charles, you've just made the first major mistake of your stay in Stellian. This town has no redeeming factors!"   
  
"So.. I noticed."   
  
"That's why we love it so much, isn't it Beej?"   
  
"That and the free room and board, courtesy of Ole Doc Potter." BJ concurred, which gave Hawkeye the initiative to continue his rollicking encomium.  
  
"A man would be a fool to deny living the life we lead. Free tent out back behind the most prestigious medical practice in the world, great company, bad liquor, and every so often a pretty head on top of a prettier skirt."   
  
Charles incredulously turned back to face the two doctors. "Do you mean to tell me that that germ-infested sewer you jokingly refer to as your housing... you live there VOLUNTARILY?!"   
  
"We only just put it up, Charles. Don't pass judgement until we reshingle the roof. It's a fixer-upper, sure, but.." Hawkeye trailed off, suddenly very interested in the contents of his glass.   
  
"I actually live across town, but I spend so much time here I guess I never bothered to go home. Just one of those things. Anyway, Ole Doc's more than happy to let us live here. He'd put us up in his own house if it wasn't so small and we weren't so destructive."   
  
"Have neither of you put forth any effort towards marriage?" Charles asked scornfully.   
  
"And give up all my time with BJ here? No sir. Don't need a woman when you've got him." Hawkeye said indulgently, clapping BJ on the back in a show of goodwill.   
  
"I am married. But, no children and my wife seems to enjoy the time alone. In fact..." BJ began, his eyes taking on a new light, one of anger and bitterness.   
  
Hawkeye stopped him with a gentle tap on the shoulder, and he sighed deeply, shaking his head. "I need another drink."   
  
Charles put forth his best effort to pretend not to hear him, and he briefly turned toward the door, wondering if there was a single place in town where he could go and still retain his sanity, dignity and good name... when suddenly the door opened and in walked a determined-looking, full hoop skirt and french candlestick curl wearing woman.   
  
...  
  
A woman... in a place like this?! Surely she must be lost, and possibly even in danger, he thought with astonishment. Quickly, he turned to his roommates and the sight of his frantically flickering blue eyes managed somehow to get their attention.   
  
"Something the matter, Charles? You act as though you've just seen a ghost wearing white after Labor Day."   
  
"Gentlemen, behind me. Don't make a scene, I'm sure with a bit of cooperation and inconspicuousness we can handle the situation. Simply look, I believe this speaks for itself."   
  
BJ and Hawkeye momentarily believed that some sort of walking catastrophe; perhaps a human-sized wasp or a hostile Yankee holding a musket, had entered the premises, so when all they saw was the usual deer head on the wall and Hotlips Houlihan standing next to the door, they wondered what exactly this Yankee was trying to pull.   
  
"I don't see anything. Charles, are you sure you don't want a drink?" BJ asked politely, certain that the man was mad.   
  
"You don't SEE anything? Gentlemen, are you blind?!"   
  
"What's to see? Some tables, a deer head, the door, Baker Smith losing his lunch, Margaret, Taylor Smith tipping over the table.."   
  
"MARGARET?!" Charles exclaimed, his voice still in a whisper. "A lady has just entered the premises and you're referring to her by her common name, not even interested in escorting her out of this hellhole?!"   
  
"No need to worry about Margaret. She's a big person, she can take care of herself." Hawkeye said with more than a little sarcasm in his voice.   
  
Sure enough, she smiled and nodded to everyone in the saloon who acknowledged her, and took a seat at the now conveniently vacant end of the bar. Talking and laughing with the bartender, she ordered something and then turned to look around the room.   
  
"But... SURELY this is not a proper place for a lady!!!" Charles sputtered, disbelief rushing through his veins.  
  
"You're absolutely right. But what does that have to do with Margaret?" BJ asked with sincere confusion.   
  
"My word.. is.. is she looking this way?!"   
  
"Maybe she is and maybe she isn't. She's got eyes all around her head." Hawkeye said, taking another sip of his drink.   
  
The sight of the so-elegantly groomed woman had almost the same effect on Winchester as he'd hoped a fine shot of Brandy would have. In the moments it took his eyes to follow the woman so brutally referred to as "Margaret" around the room and onto the profane seat which she so happily seated herself atop, he felt his headache dissolve into oblivion. His hope for his own sanity was instantly restored. It was nearly a miracle, that such a beauty could thrive in this dry, smothering wasteland.  
  
Surely, it would be ungentlemanly to allow such a grand act to go unappreciated. He turned back to his roommates and put his chin in his palm. Scrutinizing the two men, he wondered what sort of undesirables they really were, to let such a delicate blossom sit alone at the bar in a place like that.   
  
"Would I be correct in assuming that neither of you have any intention of offering to buy the lady a drink?" He asked lazily.   
  
"You don't mean to say that you're leaving us already?" Hawkeye said, feigning shock.   
  
"Forgive my impertenence, but your infantile prattling can certainly not compare with the company of so delicate a maiden."   
  
"Delicate...?! Maiden?!"   
  
"Aww, Hawk, that's high society for you. You're not a man unless you throw money at anything wearing a corset." BJ consoled him.   
  
"Hey, I'll remember that next time I forget my wallet somewhere." Hawkeye mused as Charles walked determinedly to the bar.   
  
Never one to be nervous in the presence of women, he forced fleeting thoughts of anxiety out of his head and he put on his most gentlemanly expression. He carefully placed his palm on the bar next to where she sat. It managed to get her attention and she turned to face him with a tantalizing gaze in her perfectly-shapen blue eyes.   
  
"Good evening, Madame." Charles said softly, taking her hand and placing a kiss on the outside of her lace gloves.   
  
"Oh, hello." She said pleasantly but in a detached sort of manner. She almost looked as though she had been waiting for someone else, because the moment she saw his face her eyes hardened to a merely amiable expression and away flitted the sultry flitting eyelids of just a moment ago.   
  
"Please forgive me for disturbing you, I noticed your entrance from across this vile alehouse and it was as if a seraphim descended to earth on golden wings. Your presence here is like that of a scintillating emerald discovered amidst a pile of rubble. May I be so bold as to favor my hedonistic side and purchase you a carafe of ambrosia?"   
  
"My my, I'm flattered." She said, smiling widely. "What exactly is it you want, though?"   
  
"Only to bask in your heavenly light for a brief, shining moment."   
  
"He wants to buy you a brew." The bartender said dully.   
  
"Oh! Is that it. Sure, I'm game." She laughed and he seated himself at her left. Shifting away from him, she demurely looked downward and changed the subject.   
  
"I don't think I've ever seen you around here before. Visiting someone?"   
  
"What? Oh, certainly not. I've no acquaintances here."   
  
"I see. You're a yankee." She said matter-of-factly.   
  
"Oh, well, yes. I'm a physician from Boston. Due to a series of misfortunes I found myself dishonorably employed at the local medical facility under a real antediluvian of a proprietor."   
  
"You work at the 4077th?" Margaret asked eagerly.  
  
Charles smiled with amazing restraint and nodded. "Unfortunately, I shall only be in service for a week, and then I'm returning to Boston."   
  
"So you thought you'd come on out and see the sights while you're rooming with those two clowns?" She asked in a low tone, snickering.   
  
"Well, yes."   
  
"Sir, if it wouldn't be too much of an encumbrance, may I give you a piece of advice on living in Stellian?"   
  
"Stellian? Where is that?"   
  
"The town we're in right now."   
  
"Oh! My, where is my memory? Of course, of course!"   
  
She smiled coquettishly, lowering her lashes. "Well, sir, stay the hell away from ladies. There's no faster way to find yourself with a bullet through your skull and a pitchfork sticking out of your chest than to make yourself friendly with the women. As it is right now, my husband has just walked into the bar and he'll be none too reluctant to take you out back should we be seen talking. So, go on back to your table now. It was delightful to make your acquaintance, and I sincerely hope you enjoy yourself in Stellian."   
  
The way she said it, it seemed that the former delightful companion he'd devoted so much of his thought process and flowery poetry to was there one moment and gone the next. Her eyes were cold as steel and he never doubted that she wouldn't hesitate to take him out back herself.   
  
With a courteous bow, he impassively slunk back toward the table. To his shock and dismay, Hawkeye and BJ were gone, and in their place was a lewd, rank circle of strangers. 4 men sat there as if they'd been there all night, playing cards and chugging ale, and Charles quickly found safe ground at the same seat he'd been refused not an hour earlier. It was now completely vacant and the only other people at the bar were the lovely woman, Margaret, and a tall, imperturbable man who seemed almost unaware of her bubbly speech and affectionate laughter. A moment later, they departed and Charles was left all alone in a bar full of complete strangers. Dangerous strangers. Angry strangers with weapons and a deep dislike for people like him.   
  
All those factors combined made the entrance of yet another woman enough to turn his head in typical jaded spectator fashion. Unfortunately, this woman was nothing at all like the angelic Margaret; in fact, she was a stumpy, matronly girl who wore a red and white party dress, and sported hair as black as coal tucked under her large flowered hat in a fashion that was more utilitarian than stylish. Although her attire was adorned with bows and lace, her hands were perfectly covered in crocheted gloves similar to Margaret's and her hat was elaborate and well-made, her face was nearly a joke. She was darkly tanned, which in and of itself was a terrible offense to all that is ladylike, and although her eyes were dark and lively, her nose was so large it could not be forgiven and instead of a credit to her character, it was an eyesore.   
  
Not that her character was all that endearing, either. She came into the bar laughing uproariously in a nasally voice, flirting shamelessly with every man in sight, and finally seating herself at the table with the 4 card-playing primates. Charles turned away, hoping to ignore her irritating bray.   
  
The bartender approached him, scrutinizing. Finally he spoke. "You gonna buy anything? Bar's all to yourself now."   
  
"Have you anything appropriate for a night of regrets and solitude?"   
  
"Oh, please, buddy. That joke ain't ever been funny. Will some whisky do you okay?"   
  
"As long as it will numb this painful ringing in my head, I'll drink whitewash."   
  
The bartender serviced his request, and he sighed deeply. Sipping the bitter liquid, his first instinct was to make a grand spectacle of spitting it onto the bar, jumping to his feet and demanding an apology for the abysmal quality of the beverage, but he just couldn't bring himself to care.   
  
How horrible. Only a few minutes ago, he felt his soul full of energy and pride. Eagerness. And just like that, he was no better than the common trash that milled about this pitiful rat-infested hole and stunk of cheap booze and sweat.   
  
Every bit of his breeding was made nil. It was tragic. It truly was. Surely, somewhere in the world, a choir of angels was singing with sympathy for his horrid predicament.   
  
This thought made him smile. Yes... a symphony was playing right at this very moment, every instrument crying out in anguish, at the knowledge that such a wonder of humanity had been left to squander his merits in such a place. A grand work of pain, something fitting. Mozart's Requiem. Yes! He closed his eyes and could practically hear the soulful voices and instruments pleading with the creator to spare him from the torments of hell.   
  
It was truly amazing what the mind could do under such conditions. As he envisioned the "Dies Irae" in his mind, it was almost as if he could really hear the tune outside his head. From just below him, even. He could pinpoint the exact place where his mind reproduced the sound, as poor as reproduction as it was.   
  
He sighed deeply. The mind was an astonishing organ. He revelled in the sound of the music and almost felt his body lifting off of his seat. No one thought oddly of a man sitting at the bar with his eyes shut and his head tilted back, and he sat like that for quite a time, never once looking down at the pitiful drunkard lying on the floor next to his stool, playing the first tune that came into his head on his harmonica.   
  
And then, all at once, his fantasy came to a close, and what had previously been the words of god, soaring in on angels' wings, suddenly and unexpectedly transformed into the words of man, staggering along on a wooden stump.   
  
"HOW DARE YOU SPEAK TO A LADY THAT WAY!!!!!!"   
  
Charles' eyes snapped open and he turned with fury toward the sound of the voice which had so thoughtlessly crushed his one moment of solace.   
  
To his shock, he saw the woman who had entered the bar with such a total lack of grace standing up and haughtily regarding the man to her immediate left.   
  
To his absolute shock, he realized the man to her immediate left was the same unbathed swine who had refused to allow him a spot at the bar. The man got to his feet with some difficulty and towered over the woman. Swaying back and forth, he put his hands on his hips and leaned in toward her, saying something very quietly. The woman's response was that of great insult and with a hearty stance, she drew back and slapped the side of his face.   
  
"You... oh that's it, you bitch! You'll die for that one!!" The man slurred, reaching for something in his belt.   
  
At that moment, Charles had had it. If some brutal war of the degenerates was to break out, he would be damned if he'd have any part of it, no matter how insignificant. He figured that now, while the ugly woman had the man's attention, he would simply slide down off the stool and out the door before he could even be seen.   
  
Getting to his feet was no difficult task, and he took a few cunningly silent steps, silently congratulating himself at his wit and wisdom. Oh, the tales he'd tell the men back home, of being trapped in a dense fog for 3 days in a carriage with a madman driver, and of being forced to sleep in a damp tent with two psychotic men who drank more than any man should have been able to survive, and now this, escaping with his life and body intact from a classic barroom brawl. The thought was so enrapturing that he lifted his foot high in a victory march of sorts, and swiftly brought it down onto the floor.   
  
===CRACK===  
  
The sound rang through the bar like a shot, and Charles instinctively leapt back and screamed. Beneath his feet, he saw a decrepit old man lying next to the barstools, his hand drawn back like a slingshot from a crushed piece of metal that at one time resembled a harmonica.   
  
"What in the hayell was that?!" The voice of the angry man who'd been slapped by the woman followed Charles' scream so closely it seemed as if the two voices came from the same mouth. Charles caught his breath and his mind resumed its previous pattern; "Get out of here now. Get out of here now."   
  
"My, my, what is this gentleman doing on the floor? Ha ha, how whimsical." He said, his voice slurred a bit from the whisky. He decided to continue on his merry way, when suddenly the angry man stepped into his line of vision.   
  
Just beyond him, over the man's shoulder, Charles could see the woman staring in shock at the man. And all of a sudden, she turned tail and ran. Just ran, out of the bar and into the night.   
  
"My god, man! Don't just stand there, she's getting away!!" Charles exclaimed, pointing at the door frantically.   
  
The man chewed on something, his dense eyes not at all comprehending. "You done broke mah paw's harmonicker."   
  
Charles felt the color drain from his face. "Your... what?"   
  
"MAH PAW'S HARMONICKER. That harmonicker's been in the family since mah great granpaw done won it at a lucky hand of go fish. Ain't seen one like in in 50 years, my paw ain't."   
  
As the man sputtered, Charles made the connection between the man lying on the floor and the crushed piece of metal next to his hand.   
  
  
  
"I beg your pardon, sir, but if this instrument is truly of such great value, what was that man doing lying on the floor with it?" He asked reasonably.   
  
The man's face turned bright red. "MAH PAW KIN LAY DOWN ANYWHUR HE DAMN WELL PLEASES!!!"   
  
"Well, certainly I'd not deny your father the right to life, liberty and..."   
  
"YOU YANKEES DON'T KNOW HOW TO DO NOTHIN' BUT TALK, DO YA?! Well, talkin' ain't gonna bring back my paw's harmonicker."   
  
"I certainly know an ultimatum when I hear one, and as soon as I'm back in Boston I'd be more than happy to reemburse your family for the cost of the damaged instrument."  
  
"AIN'T NO MUNNEY GONNA CHANGE NOTHIN." The man roared.   
  
"I'm afraid I'm not familiar with any other means of compensation...."   
  
The man snarled and reached into his pants yet again, this time his hand emerged with a pistol. Charles jumped at the sight and backed up all the way to the bar.   
  
"S... Surely.. there must be some way we can negotiate!"   
  
"REAL MEN DON'T NEGOSHATE NUTHIN. THEY JEST SHOOT."   
  
"I.. am a gentleman of rather generous means. Anything you'd like, I can get. Caviar! Fine beef.. wine... linen? Women! Anything you wish for..."   
  
"AIN'T YOU GOT A GUN?!"   
  
"Why, certainly not... you see? Completely defenseless!"   
  
"HEH HEH. GOOD!" The man grinned widely, showing yellowed and rotting teeth. He sluggishly rose the gun and Charles screamed again, attempting to dive behind the bar. Unfortunately, his physical prowess was rather limited and he crashed to the ground behind the bar, his head throbbing as above him, a bottle shattered and he was sprayed with foul-smelling liquid.   
  
"GALL-DURNED YANKEE! WHERE YOU GONE?!?" The man yelled.   
  
Above him, the bartender stood with his arms akimbo, looking with irritation at the mess. "Partner, I'd come on out if I were you."   
  
"Are you mad?! The man has a gun!" Charles hissed, shielding the top of his head with his hands.   
  
The bartender sighed. "Why don't you go on home, Ebenizer. This'un ain't worth your time."   
  
"FERGIT IT!!! HE DUN BUSTED MAH PAW'S HAR--"   
  
"Someone busts your paw's harmonicker every week, Ebenizer! You ain't had that original harmonicker in years. Ole man Smith makes yer paw a new one everytime someone steps on it. Just give it a rest!"   
  
"Y'ALL SIDIN' WITH A YANKEE?!" Ebenizer exclaimed, and then he fired his pistol through the ceiling to prove his point.   
  
"NO, EBENIZER. But if y'all are gonna keep bustin' up my establ'shment, I'm afraid I'm gonna have to ask you to leave."   
  
Ebenizer thought this over for a moment, and then he chuckled. "Okay, fair nuff. But y'all tell that Yankee next time I see 'im, there ain't gonna be no mediater or bar. And I ain't gonna be drunked then, neither!! No sir! When I ain't drunked, I'm the best shot in 20 counties. Tell 'im to wait'n see! Come on, boys. We kin sure's shootin' find nother place to drink."   
  
A few minutes later, the table of rowdy men had cleared out and the bartender sighed, making a gesture to Charles to get to his feet. "That there was Ebenizer Fish Jr. His paw was Ebenizer Fish Senior, yellerist liver in the state. Can't take a sip without fallin' down, but he's always got to have his evenin' constitutional. Y'all okay, partner?"   
  
Charles shakily stood up, surveying the bar with a hand to his head. "I believe so, yes. I must express my gratitude--"   
  
"You're payin' fer that bottle'a proofer Ebenizer dun shot. Not to mention the roof. This ain't happened in almost 2 years, and I really don't like havin to have the sheriff come out for a little somethin' like this."   
  
"I will gladly assist you and your fine establishment in any way I possibly can."   
  
"Not to say shoot-outs ain't good fer business. They sure is, but thing is if y'all ain't got a gun, ain't nobody gonna wanna come'n see it."   
  
"I.. see."   
  
The bartender sighed and pushed past Charles to get a broom and clean up the broken bottle on the floor. Uncertain what to do, Charles opened his wallet and lay a crisp $5 bill on the counter. He then walked all the way around the counter and headed for the exit.   
  
"Ain't had nothin' like this happen since that crazy boy show up 2 years ago an' start wearin' dresses to get out the war. Real shameful, that was. He didn't carry a gun and to this day he wear dresses. Knew his pa."   
  
Charles felt queasy and he turned to leave. The bartender managed to spit out one more random comment before he made it outside.   
  
"That girl sittin' with Ebenizer was Miss Magnolia."   
  
Nodding and smiling, Charles practically ran out the door. 


	5. Chapter Five: Stroke of Midnight!

***  
  
Striding down the darkened streets, Charles Emerson Winchester III actually found himself eager to get back to his quarters.   
  
That wasn't entirely true, he realized. He'd rather sleep on the grass outside the mockingly titled "Officer's Club" than return to the company of the insipid Captains Pierce and Hunnicutt; save for the fact that he'd just barely escaped from the saloon alive.   
  
Voices rung in his head and he gritted his teeth at the pounding headache he'd developed after the bottle of liquor had exploded and landed on his head.   
  
His physical and mental condition bordered on blasphemy, at least it would be considered such in his hometown. But here, in the dark and hot night of Stellian, Georgia, he was alone in his miserable brooding.   
  
Walking along, he felt no danger. The angry man in the bar, Ebenizer, had left to go to another saloon and surely had better things to do than follow around a battered and weary man in the dark. It was an ironic feeling; he was all alone in a strange town full of gun-toting maniacs, and yet he felt nothing but apathy. His near brush with death hadn't left him with any great enlightenment or insight; in fact, the only proof that there had been any conflict at all was a small cut on his forehead and the disgusting smell of liquor that surrounded him like a cloud.   
  
The humiliation. He closed his eyes and felt a groan rise out of his throat. Were he not careful, that groan could easily transform into the shriek of a madman. But, above all, Winchester was a man of self-control, and he simply left it at a frustrated snort and continued walking along, rubbing his eyes.   
  
It wasn't, however, a night for taking your eyes off the road, and before Charles could even acknowledge it, he felt himself collide with another pedestrian coming the opposite way. He opened his eyes in a flash and realized that the person had already passed him.   
  
"Oh, pardon me." he said quietly.   
  
The other party was silent for a moment, standing still behind him. Then, the party spoke.   
  
"That... that voice!"   
  
Charles frowned. That was no sort of apology. "Excuse me?" He asked, never turning to see the person behind him.   
  
"That voice!! I KNOW that voice!!!" The tone was excited, clearly very intent on something.   
  
It was then that Charles realized that he, too, knew the voice of the party he collided with.   
  
He whirled around, thoughts of violence, anger and hatred racing through his mind. At the same time, a figure nearly a foot shorter than he was also whirling around to face him. As the figure twirled, billowing red and white skirts flew in an elegant arc and two neatly gloved hands flew up to the figure's chest, clutching one another.   
  
Charles' eyes narrowed.   
  
The other person's eyes widened.   
  
"YOU!!" Charles roared.   
  
"YOU!!!" The other person squealed.   
  
It was clearly the woman from the bar, Charles reassured himself. Up close, she was even more oddly homely than from a distance. Her hair was, however, rather differently styled than it had previously been; now it was hanging down in her face clumsily, and unless Charles was mistaken, several blatantly obvious seams were present on the underside of the hair. So it was fake!!   
  
"You... cowardly bitty! Do you have any idea what nearly became of me?!" He screamed.   
  
The woman looked at him quizzically, her hands still clutched together. "What do you mean, sir?"   
  
"You simply ran off, leaving that loathsome barbarian and I alone together! I was nearly killed while trying to escape from your inconsequential little spat!"   
  
"Oh, you don't say." The woman said casually.   
  
"'OH, I DON'T SAY'?! Is that all you have to say for yourself?!"   
  
"No, not at all sir. That wasn't at all what I meant to say!" The woman nervously wrung her hands, looking at the ground.   
  
"Young woman, I shall not be led astray by your womanhood. You left me to die and I shall not forget that!"   
  
The girl looked up in surprise, and then suddenly a huge, giddy smile lit up her entire face. Before Charles knew what had happened, she launched herself at him and buried her face in his shirt, sobs racking her body.   
  
"Oh, sir, it was so horrible!! That evil man Ebenizer had plans to dishonor me! I was so afraid, I don't know what came over me when I struck him that way! It was so frightening! I'm so sorry I ran the way I did, but he wouldn't hesitate to kill a lady! You distracted him, and I was going to get help! Honestly!!! He's run afoul of the law ever since we met, and I was always so afraid to leave him! But now, I think I'm finally rid of him! Oh, sir, I'm free, and it's all thanks to you!!!"   
  
Charles tried to step away from the leach-like grasp of the young woman, but to no avail. She sobbed against him and he looked around to make sure no one was watching yet even still more public shaming.  
  
"Shhh!! Be quiet, woman! Shut up! Someone will hear you!! Let go of me!"   
  
The girl tipped her head back and wailed, and then resumed her muffled sobbing. Charles grabbed her arms and forcefully wrenched her back from himself. Bending down so that he was at eye level with the woman, he realized that she'd never been crying at all, and a large cheerful smile still filled her face.   
  
"Get that ridiculous expression off of your face." Charles said bitterly, and she complied, replacing her grin with a raised eyebrow. Charles gave up and dropped her wrists, turning to leave.   
  
"Sir, wait! You can't leave!"   
  
He laughed heartily. "Can't I?"   
  
"No! I mean... you can't leave me all alone! What if Ebenizer comes back for me?"   
  
"Young woman, that is none of my concern!"   
  
"Of course it is!! You defended my honor, and that means I'm in your debt. And surely Ebenizer wouldn't dare touch a big, strong man like you!"   
  
"You'll not win me over with poorly-conceived strokes to my ego, I'm afraid. Good night."   
  
"You'd leave a damsel in distress out in the cold, cruel night with raging alcoholics after her?!?" The girl screamed incredulously. Her voice was a grating sound that made Charles wince in pain.   
  
"Show me a damsel in distress and perhaps we can talk."   
  
"What?! It's me, you big dummy!!"   
  
"You! You are no damsel, my dear. You are a withered raisin with a voice that could kill a horse."   
  
"Well you don't have to be MEAN about it! Here all this time I thought you were brave and heroic!"   
  
"PLEASE, young woman! Your conduct is absolutely deplorable!"   
  
"Huh?!"  
  
"Where are your manners?! A young lady ought to be demure and well-spoken!" Charles exclaimed, hoping that a jab at the girl's pride would extinguish her unbridled affections for the moment so he could escape.   
  
"I'll have you know that my Mammy thinks I'm quite a catch! "   
  
"Your MAMMY must be blind! Now, I bid you a good evening and hope I have the good fortune to never cross paths with you again!" He whirled around lividly and began to stalk off.   
  
"Hey! You're going the wrong way!"   
  
Charles stopped, and turned back to face her, shaking his finger. "Ah, you think you're clever, don't you? Trying to lure me into some sort of seduction, no doubt. Hmm? Well, I must say you certainly are a brazen and cheeky hussy!!"   
  
"Nothing but the best for... say, you never told me your name."   
  
"And it shall stay that way! Good-bye!" He resumed his skulking as, somewhere in the distance, thunder rolled. A bolt of lightning suddenly illuminated the dirty night street and Charles had only taken a few short steps before he felt that irksome girl breathing behind him.   
  
"You meddlesome twit. You're following me." He hissed.   
  
"It's gonna rain! I'm not staying out here all alone in the rain. I'm going home! YOU'RE still going the wrong way!" She shot back.   
  
Charles stopped, as he had done so many times before. "Are you implying that I, Charles Emerson Winchester III, can not tell the difference between north and south?!"   
  
The girl's eyes lit up. "Charles Emerson Winchester III. That sounds so impressive!"   
  
"You shall forget that I ever uttered that name in your presence and stop following me at once!"   
  
"I told you already! I'm not following you! You're going the wrong way! And it's not my fault you have such a pretty name."   
  
"My name is most certainly not 'pretty'."   
  
"Sure it is! Since you've so generously bestowed upon little old me the gracious gift of your identity, allow me to introduce myself."   
  
"Madame, I could care less who you are."   
  
"Magnolia Q. Klinger. Well, Magnolia's not my *real* name, but it fits me rather well, doesn't it?"   
  
"Like a glove." Charles said flippantly. Unfortunately, Magnolia didn't pick up on the sarcasm and beamed.   
  
"Oh, sir, you flatter me! I'm feeling faint!"   
  
"Good, do me a favor and fall down right here. Perhaps THEN..."   
  
"Ha ha! No sir, you aren't so easily rid of Miss Magnolia. That's what they all call me when they're vying for my affections. I've turned down every man in this town at least once. Those southern men can talk a blue streak about sending flutters through the hearts of women, but they cry like babies when you tell them that there will never be anything more than a sweet summer breeze under the magnolia tree branches, a gentle squeeze of his hand and a sip of lemon-- HEY!! WHERE ARE YOU GOING?!?"   
  
Charles had been trotting along for a good 20 seconds before Magnolia noticed that she was speaking to a shadow. He'd made good time and was nearly a block away. When he heard her voice rise, he realized that she was on to him and he grabbed a long stick that had been lying in the grass. Magnolia gathered up her skirts and raced toward him, but he held his ground rather well and held the stick out as a warning.   
  
"Don't come any closer, you malodorous shrew!" He snarled.   
  
"How dare you run away from me while I'm talking?!" Magnolia whined.   
  
"I obviously can't get away from you any other way! You are the sole most infuriating person I've ever encountered! To HELL with my contract! If the entire city is like you, I'd be better off in prison!"   
  
"What contract?! Prison?!"   
  
"At least in prison I can count on regular meals and no racy amazonesses who can't take no for an answer!"   
  
"Why would you go to prison?"   
  
"That is none of your concern! I am going to walk away now, and if you dare follow me, I assure you you will regret it. Do you understand?!"   
  
"But..." Magnolia protested, as lightning struck once again.   
  
A moment later, the very sky seemed to split apart and torrants of rain cascaded to the earth. Charles took this opportunity and marched away, leaving Magnolia with her hands clasped, yet another warning dying on her lips.   
  
Indeed, Charles was going the wrong way. The absolute opposite way, and he suddenly found himself back in front of the Officers' Club, which was now darkened and vacant.   
  
"*My* house is this way." Magnolia said from somewhere behind him. He gritted his teeth and turned around silently, refusing to acknowledge her. He was wet from the sudden downpour and wanted nothing more than to go lie under his bed and stew.   
  
As he passed her now-drenched figure, he refused to meet her eyes or even mutter an "excuse me" as their bodies brushed against each other. She, however, turned around to face his angrily stormy eyes, and suddenly her hand shot upward, blocking his movement and curiously examining his long-forgotten injury.   
  
"How did that happen?" She asked softly, her voice sounding so completely different Charles was momentarily convinced that someone else had said it. But alas, there was nobody there on the sidewalk but himself and Magnolia, whose flowered hat was drooping with the pressure of the falling rain.   
  
"Your... beau. I told you, I was nearly killed!" He exclaimed angrily.   
  
Thunder echoed his sentiments and Magnolia gazed intently at the dried blood. In the dim light and with the rain surrounding her, she was no more comely than before; what with her soaked clothes, ruined hat and black wig that looked like a drowned rat. But something about her eyes was different, and despite the fact that the only physical change was increased pupil size, they seemed to carry a sort of soul in them that hadn't been present before.   
  
Charles' own icy blue eyes had been full of anger and annoyance, but he felt his brow loosening itself despite the anger that still remained inside his chest. The clumsy, irritating person who only a moment ago ran away like a cowardly child had a surprisingly gentle yet sturdy hand, and seemed genuinely concerned.   
  
"I'm sorry." Magnolia said quietly. "It's my fault this happened."   
  
"Well, yes, it is... but I shouldn't judge myself too harshly. It's.. just a small.. erm... injury." He would have ordinarily elaborated on the intense, burning pain that he was in due to the cut, but it didn't seem worth it.   
  
Magnolia's hand lingered on Charles' forehead for a minute longer, and then her hand shot down to her mouth to cover a sneeze.   
  
"Um.. Miss Magnolia.. it is rather late.. and raining. Why don't you just go on home, and we can forget this ugly mess ever took place, hmm?"   
  
Magnolia sniffled and wiped her nose with the back of her glove. "Oh, sir, I've been such a burden on you. I simply won't be able to live with myself until we've made amends somehow!"   
  
"No!" Charles exclaimed, and then laughed nervously. "That is to say.. it's been no burden at all. I shall leave this experience none the worse for wear, and so shall you. Now, I'll be on my way, and you can go home to your... erm.. mammy."   
  
"Well, I suppose you're right, I should get some rest before the picnic to-- OH!!!" Her head snapped upward and a huge grin replaced her somber expression. "THE PICNIC! I completely forgot, what a silly bird! You simply must come to my picnic tomorrow! The whole of Stellian will be there!"   
  
"I.. I'm afraid not." He said with finality in his voice. The comforting smile on his lips was beginning to fade.   
  
"I simply won't stand for a refusal! Oh, how perfect! You can join me at the picnic and I'll tell all the men about the gallant yankee who came to the rescue of poor lil' Miss Magnolia! And my father, who is a rather influential figure in the town government, oh, he'll be so pleased..."   
  
"Now, just a moment!" Charles stammered, but Magnolia had taken to twirling around in the pouring rain, squealing with pleasure.   
  
It was then that the words "Influential figure in the town government" struck Charles, and his eyes widened.   
  
"Did.. did you say influential..."   
  
"It'll be wonderful! Just wonderful! It'll begin at noon sharp, and light dancing and socializing, followed by tea and those magnificent little cakes, and watermelon and an evening soiret, I'll wear my best linen and lace, oh, and how perfect that you should come along now! I was going with Ebenizer as my beau, but that would be just silly now!!"   
  
"How... influential?" Charles inquired loudly, totally disregarding Magnolia's eager rambling.   
  
"How influential? Oh, not very, I'm afraid. He says jump, the whole of Stellian replies, 'how high, grand poobah'..."   
  
"Could this man.. your.. er-hem.. father.. could he nullify a contract?"   
  
"Not a military one." Magnolia said with sullenness in her voice.   
  
"Of COURSE not a military one! A simple civilian employment contract. Could he void it?"   
  
"Hhmmmmm... maybe. It all depends on how many dances you're free for."   
  
"How... many... dances." Charles repeated, his face falling.   
  
"Well, of course! He won't do it for free! But... if you're willing to show Daddy what a gentleman you are and how well you treat his little Magnolia, I think something could be arranged. Otherwise, absolutely not."   
  
"That is blackmail!!"   
  
"I resent that! It most certainly is not! It's just... a shameless bribe."   
  
"I would sooner spend all eternity in the purgatory on earth known as the M*A*S*H 4077th than be indebted to you in such a degrading fashion!" Charles laughed haughtily.  
  
Magnolia scowled. "You're despicable!"   
  
"You are an utter fiend!"   
  
"You're soaking wet!"   
  
"At least my hair is real!"   
  
"What there IS of it!"   
  
"You miserable cretin!"   
  
"You belligerant jackass!"   
  
"Miss Magnolia?"  
  
"What?"   
  
"Were I to attend your little get-together, I would be correct in assuming that because I provided an escape for you and thus, you were first indebted to me, the few gay little dances we er.. enjoy together would be due reciprocation, correct?"   
  
Magnolia blinked. "Sure, I suppose so. But I thought I was a miserable cretin and you'd sooner die..."   
  
Charles laughed lightly, raising his hands up. "A thing of the past. You see, I am truly in a rather desperate position.. and I assure you that this would never ever take place were you not already in my debt. You understand that, correct?" His face turned to stone.  
  
Magnolia nodded, slinking backwards a step.  
  
"Very well then. I shall attend your social function, we shall have a few dances and then you shall talk to your father."   
  
"Meaning what afterwards, exactly?"   
  
"I shall no longer have an obligation to my foolish employer and I will be free to suppress this entire sordid experience and return to Boston!"   
  
"Well, wait a minute. Sometimes dances can lead to more. It wouldn't be... such a stretch to imagine the two of us going biblical."   
  
Charles' jaw dropped and his eyes narrowed. "You tawdry seductress!"   
  
Magnolia's eyes glittered and she frolicked about in the rain, belting out a painfully out of tune rendition of "Yankee Doodle".   
  
"You.. you truly make me sick." Charles growled as she skipped around him.   
  
"Stroke of midnight!" Magnolia exclaimed, hearing a distant clock chime above the rainfall. "A kiss for the lady?"   
  
"No."   
  
"You have to! Stroke of midnight is the witching hour. I'll transform into a horrible witch unless a handsome prince can break the spell before the clock hits twelve dings."   
  
"I shouldn't worry. No one would be able to tell the difference."   
  
Magnolia jutted out her lower lip and crossed her arms. "That isn't funny. Large noses are becoming. That's three strokes!"   
  
"I am not going to kiss you."   
  
"Four!"   
  
"Go home! Isn't it enough that I've agreed to make a complete ass of myself at your ridiculous party?!"   
  
"Five!"   
  
"No? Then I'll leave!"   
  
"Six!"   
  
"Be quiet!"   
  
"Seven!"   
  
"You are deluding yourself!"   
  
"Eight!"   
  
"Shut up!"   
  
"Nine!"   
  
"I am walking away from you."   
  
"Ten!"   
  
"Here I go!"   
  
"Eleven!"   
  
"You are a complete and utter--"   
  
"TWELVE!!" Magnolia screamed, and launched herself at Charles. In one split second, she grabbed onto him and shoved her lips against his.   
  
The clock completed its' chiming, and as the last note fell away into darkness, the rain continued to spill down onto the dark street. Surrounded by the cold night air, the falling rain and the silence of a gloomy night, Charles Emerson Winchester III and Miss Magnolia found no reason to speak again that night. They came away from each other just as suddenly as they'd come together, and Miss Magnolia grinned and walked back down the badly-beaten path as though nothing had happened.   
  
Charles watched her go in silence, his eyes fixed intently on the swishing white skirt with its red trim, the fake black hair that hung unevenly down her back, the drenched hat with its perky silk flowers, and the strange air she carried with her.   
  
Magnolia skipped as soon as she knew she was out of his sight, and she pulled the hat off her head and tossed it like a discus, eagerly watching as it sailed on the wind and landed on the ground several yards away. She pulled the disgustingly wet wig off her head and exposed her real hair; short, thick and black, to the wind and the rain.   
  
Her hair was very short, as was typical for a person of her political and social standing. Because after all, Magnolia Q. Klinger was not at all her father's little Magnolia. Indeed, she'd become that in recent years and with the care she took to maintain her womanly exterior she was laughingly referred to as Magnolia Klinger by everyone in town.   
  
However, the fact that she had been christened Maxwell by her parents and the Magnolia was a leftover personage from the days when Maxwell was desperate to avoid the draft at all costs wasn't something Charles had ever been informed of.   
  
Rather unfortunate.   
  
As "Magnolia" entered the front door, "she" became "he". But despite that, he did have a picnic to prepare for tomorrow. French curls would be lovely for the event, he mused. Absolutely lovely.   
  
*** 


	6. Chapter Six: Left Undone

In the early morning, hardly a sound could be heard in the immediate vicinity of Ole Doc Potter's small house, and it was ultimately the heavy, damp silence that roused the souls who inhabited the area. In the midsummer morning, every nuance of the day was saturated in heat, discomfort and humidity, and the day began unfurling its misery as soon as the first spot of light appeared at the base of the sky.   
  
Ole Doc had always been an early riser, and on this particular morning he was awake even before Radar; truly no small feat. Of course, today was yet another day for him, another day of potential patients and, more likely, sitting on the porch watching the dusty road and listening to the maddening sounds of a day too hot to produce any sort of medical emergency worth even coming into the doctor's for. Sure, there would be sprained ankles and sickness that came from bad water, but sometimes even the weakest of spirits decided against leaving their cool, shady houses for want of medical care, just because of the concrete truth that it was too damned hot to go outside, no matter how great the pain.   
  
Yes, it was spirits like that that made Ole Doc so wary of people nowadays. He hadn't always been such a hard person to get along with; in fact, during the war, he made many friends in this awful area with the fighting and the yankees so near, with the burning of Atlanta so often on everyone's tongues. Hardship brought people together, but now that the hardship was over and the land had had almost a year of good rain and a mild winter, people were beginning to slowly forget. Suddenly, before his very eyes, the town of Stellian had regressed from good, solid, honorable human stock to a bunch of whiny, drunk and incompetent sissies.   
  
And it wasn't just the simple townspeople, no indeed. Ole Doc's very own boy, Radar, had knowingly and willingly allowed a yankee to sleep under the roof of one of the fine army doctors' tents! The same tent that housed exhausted and half-dead doctors Pierce and Hunnicutt during the most grizzly of the assaults, when blood seemed to rain from the very sky on top of sluggishly speaking, disoriented young boys who had no greater desire than to keep the yankees away from the town where they grew up!   
  
Just the thought of that stuffy, priveleged puffball who reeked of perfume and starch sleeping on his property made Ole Doc want to scream. A week, an entire week of having to deal with the knowledge that no matter what he did, that man was contractually obligated to work for him... it was enough to drive him utterly mad. What business did he even have being there? There was nothing that yankee doctor knew that he didn't, and he certainly wasn't looking forward to listening to the yankee putting on airs about hoity-toity Boston medicine.   
  
Radar stumbled into the kitchen a moment or two later, mumbling sleepily. Ole Doc frowned and turned to him, taking a seat at the table and pouring a cup of coffee from the pot that had been sitting out since yesterday morning.   
  
"Gonna be a scorcher today." He said simply.   
  
Radar didn't sit down for a couple of seconds after Ole Doc spoke, and then when he did sit down he didn't answer right away. Of course he knew that Ole Doc was suitably upset about something; most likely the yankee doctor. It always took Ole Doc awhile to really and completely wrap his mind around an uncomfortable situation and find his position on it. Radar had long since taken it off his mental queue of problems that needed pondering, but he wasn't surprised that Ole Doc was still chewing on it.   
  
Of course, Ole Doc had been present for the treatment of Winchester's driver where Radar hadn't been, and he'd heard all the fancy terms for simple things like a black eye, a busted tooth and a faintin' spell due to the sun; watched impatiently as the yankee stood and stared for what seemed like hours at the patient, just standing there and staring for no reason; and had even been so cordial as to keep his mouth shut when the yankee threw a fit at the state of the medical instruments.   
  
And even after his admirable discretion, the yankee still acted upon Ole Doc as if he were his jailer and not a contemporary (or possibly superior) doctor. He spoke clearly but with a great degree of deigning in his sophistocated style to the older man. Insulting other peoples' intelligence seemed truly to be his forte, and it was all Ole Doc could do not to throw the "unsuitable" instruments in his face and the contract in the fireplace.   
  
Radar finally responded to his former quip about the heat, a simple reply of "Yes, I think it is, sir."   
  
A few more minutes of silence followed, as both Ole Doc and Radar contemplated an appropriate way to bring up the situation of Winchester. Ole Doc made the first attempt.  
  
"I wonder how Pierce and Hunnicutt slept last night."   
  
"Oh, gosh sir. I don't know. Do you think there's maybe a problem with the uh... the accomo.. er... the set up?"   
  
"I'm not comfortable with that yankee in my backyard." Just like that, he'd said it all. "I think if he's got to work here at all, he can go to an inn."   
  
Radar frowned at the sudden and highly unexpected honesty. Of course, he shouldn't have been, because despite his thorough Southern upbringing, Ole Doc was always much more frank about matters than most gentlemen would be under the same circumstances.   
  
A moment later, Ole Doc sighed. "I should choose my words more carefully, but I'm just not sure how to say it with grace. It rattles me to know he's in the same city, let alone tent as any of us. What in the hell were they thinkin', sendin' that idiot down here?!"   
  
"Well, he's a very good doctor, sir.."   
  
"I'm through with that 'very good doctor' crap! I've seen how he works and it's the most ridiculous thing I've ever seen!"   
  
"Sir, it's only a week. Besides, sir.. you won't have to deal with him today. Today's the.. er.. the social at the Klinger's."   
  
Ole Doc quickly put down his cup of coffee. "Gall-durned if you ain't right! I'd gone and completely forgotten about that. It makes a man proud when a town can put on a lawn social this soon after Reconstruction's begun. I'll be right glad to see a proper Southern soiree again!"   
  
Radar's boyish face seemed to light up at the very thought. "Oh yes sir..."   
  
"Say what they will about 'Miss Magnolia', that boy makes one hell of a hostess." Ole Doc jumped to his feet, exhilarated at the thought of a lingering, luxurious party like the kind that he often attended with great passion in his younger days. "A man'd be a brute not to attend dressed in his best."   
  
"Oh, yes sir. I know sir. I'm pretty sure the whole town will be there, sir.. well, at least everyone in the family's favor."   
  
"Be a right pity not to be in their favor today!"   
  
With that cheerful thought eclipsing any lingering annoyance at the plight of the M*A*S*H 4077th and its' Yankee affiliation, Ole Doc and Radar quickly ate a couple of cornmeal cakes apiece and chugged down the remainder of the bitter liquid that had been coffee just a few short days before and now was distinguishable from swamp water only by the fact that it was dark, a good deal thinner and tasted infinitely worse.   
  
Outside the ramshackle dwelling of Ole Doc Potter, daylight slowly broke and activity increased minutely among the traditionally early risers of the community. Despite the myriad of things that needed doing in the early morning, very little was actually done before 8 or 9 and what with the party beginning at noon and the utter necessity of showing up in immaculate condition in effect, it seemed rather unlikely that anything would get accomplished that day. Fittingly, the whole of Stellian seemed to exhale a collective sigh of relief.   
  
It was perhaps this resounding and thunderous sigh that whipped open Charles' eyelids a few hours later. The rank and untidy tent with its' mosquito-netted "windows" seemed unnaturally luminous with the 9:00 sun streaming in rectangular patterns across the beds and the floor, and Charles momentarily wondered if the almighty had looked down upon his humble servant in duress and set the whole of Stellian, Georgia ablaze in a tumultuous ball of hellfire. Oh, the uplifting thought of the entire miserable town engulfed in flames! It brought a smile to his weary disposition; a smile he immediately regretted when the tensing of his facial muscles brought on a horrendous headache.   
  
Or, perhaps the headache had already been there. It was impossible to tell, and he pushed himself into a seated position, clutching at his forehead in vain and being rewarded for his efforts with an overwhelming aroma; the combination of heavy liquor and musty rain.   
  
In a flash, his mind's eye widened and unwillingly took in the memory of the night before. That saloon. Ebenizer. The gunshots and that foolish old man with his harmonica. A cowardly woman in a red and white summer dress. The rain.   
  
He blinked. It all seemed so surreal in the clear light of day. Impossible, in fact, and more likely an alcohol-induced dream than any real events that he had been a part of. Surely.. surely he hadn't found himself fighting off the advances of a squealing lady outside a barroom. That alone was ludicrous enough that he felt his mind easing itself out of an onsetting panic at the thought of recalling the other events.   
  
It had to have been a result of the whisky.. or whatever that drink that he'd ordered had been. It had to have been some combination of the thick, southern spirits, his fatigue and.. and the shock his delicate constitution had endured after being stranded in this backwoods hellhole with its women of ill-repute and men with no class who so laughably called themselves physicians. Of course it was all a dream! He'd obviously made it back to the tent with no injury except that which his pride had sustained, and now that he knew it was all an illusion, there was truly nothing that existed in reality to give credibility to the nightmare of last night!   
  
A deep sigh of relief escaped his lungs and he laughed a little. No harm done, so it turned out. If he'd had perhaps a bit too much to drink, that made him no less a man, for everyone knew that even the best of men sometimes overindulged. It was a credit to his breeding that he was able to survive such an ordeal at all, and surely no one would fail to understand his desperation and loneliness and the fact that he'd turned to the bottle and the bottle had disagreed with his ideas. All was well, so it turned out.   
  
He did regret, however, the fact that there was truly no arrangement with any influential public figure. He had truly looked forward with much anticipation to the idea of speaking man-to-man with someone who would understand his plight and mercifully release him from the cruel binds of contractual obligation purgatory. He would simply have to attempt to make do under unthinkable conditions... as difficult as it seemed at the moment with his pounding head and the smell of rain and booze wafting around him.   
  
First of all, a bath was in order. He couldn't possibly be expected to retain the dust of his journey, and even the most pre-industrial of towns had resources that promoted cleanliness. Getting to his feet, he pulled a silk robe from one of his many articles of luggage and revelled in its aristocratic existance. Just feeling superior to his bungling roommates, who were already gone but surely didn't possess anything of comparable worth, made his entire morning brighter.   
  
Oh, yes. For it was the one constant in his life at this point, after all. Infinite superiority to everyone he came across. With that happy thought coloring his perceptions of the world a faint rosy hue, he pushed on the door several times to unstick the heat-warped wood from its frame and cheerfully stepped into the sweltering backyard of one Ole Doc Potter.   
  
After walking a short distance and surveying the ramshackle camp through the eyes of a horrified bystander who's so above it all, his eyes were greeted unexpectedly by the sight of two gentlemen wearing well-tailored clothing. A glaring contradiction, to say the least, and he idly wondered who these immaculately-attired men could possibly be.   
  
It was then that they turned to him and he drew back with a start. Pierce and Hunnicutt?! Dressed as gentlemen?! A profane farce and an insult to real gentlemen everywhere!   
  
A true gift it was that allowed him to see this with such clarity, and he took a deep breath before approaching them. Coming closer, he saw that despite their initially disarming exterior, they actually wore the clothing the way an infant wears fancy lace frocks; their posture failed them, and their eyes held a degree of contempt for not only the stereotype of well-to-do, well-bred folks who wore such clothes with regularity and pride, but for themselves for somehow finding themselves in a situation where they had to dress that way.   
  
However, their annoyance seemed secondary when they caught sight of their bedraggled but still patronizing roommate swaggering their way in a floaty silk robe and wrinkled pajamas. They could smell the mixture of rain and booze a mile away, and their eyes were full of curiosity and amusement.   
  
"Could it be the prodigal roommate finally come back to face the cold, cruel world?" BJ asked, putting his hands in his pockets.   
  
"Got in rather late last night, eh, Charles? Sorry about abandoning you at the Officer's Club, but we were out way past our bedtime." Hawkeye said coyly.   
  
Charles scrutinized their faces as he was so akin to doing, and then he lifted his nose and peered at them from under his eyebrows.   
  
"Has the.. erm.. washerwoman failed to get around to doing your laundry?" He asked innocently.   
  
The duo looked at each other and seemed fascinated by the fact that they were dressed so fancily. "Seems that we are dressed to kill, doesn't it? Well, Charles, you know, even the most backwater of towns can produce one or two snazzy dressers if it really puts its mind to doing it."   
  
BJ straightened his posture and adapted a pristine pose with one hand behind his back and his nose pointed straight up. "Say, Charles. How high am I supposed to point my nose, anyway?"   
  
"I'm sure he bends over all the way backwards." Hawkeye answered, imitating BJ's pose and then shading his eyes with his hand. "No wonder rich people can't let things go! Their heads are turned at such an incline that they can't even see in front of them!"  
  
"All right, gentlemen, do indulge me. What could possibly persuade two people of your ilk to don this thoroughly unconvincing guise?"   
  
"Why Charles, do you mean to tell me you don't know about the party at the Klingers'? I'm sure someone must have invited you, Southern hospitality dictates that everyone's expected to be invited to large functions, no matter how much we hate them!" Hawkeye exclaimed.   
  
Charles stopped dead.   
  
"Have you yet had the good fortune of meeting our town's fair Miss Magnolia?" BJ asked with bittersweet affection in his voice.   
  
Party?! MISS MAGNOLIA?!, he thought with horror. Then... that entire ordeal from last night had actually happened?! Oh no... no!   
  
"Believe me, if you'd met Miss Magnolia, you'd know it." Hawkeye added dryly.   
  
The humiliation! If he admitted to these bumpkins that not only had he met the flighty woman, he had also been publically shamed by her and her forward and highly unwelcome advances, he would truly never live it down. He couldn't believe that he'd actually agreed to meeting her at a party... and if these two were in any way implying that they too were invited to the party, then he would simply have to decline to show up, regardless of what she had promised in exchange for his appearance. It would be a cold day in hell before any Winchester would agree to such a degrading endeavor.   
  
"Of course not. I have no idea who Miss Magnolia is, and I believe that may be in my favor."   
  
"You're damn right it's in your favor! How perfect, seeing as how I still need a beau to the party! Chaahles, would you care to escort a lady to the soiree?" Hawkeye asked brightly, clutching his arm.   
  
"I most certainly would not!"   
  
Hawkeye tightened his grip and gawked at BJ. "Did he just turn me down?!"   
  
"It sounded that way to me."   
  
"You turned me down?!"   
  
"I shall not appear in any capacity at the party you speak of, there's no need to feel bad about it."   
  
"That means I'm gonna have to go with HIM again!" Hawkeye moaned. "You don't know how good you could have had it, Charles."   
  
"And for that, I thank God."   
  
BJ looked speculatively at Charles and Hawkeye, and then he grinned deviously. "Charles, you really should come to the party. It's nothing like the rest of Stellian, after all. People are well-behaved, well-dressed, well-meaning..."   
  
"Well-fed." Hawkeye added.   
  
"Well-liquored."   
  
"Well well well.."   
  
Charles put his hand in the air and shook his head. "Forgive me, gentlemen, but my already nonexistant intention to attend this function of which you speak is waning with every passing moment."   
  
"I wonder what Colonel Potter would think of that." BJ asked casually.   
  
"Think of what?" Charles asked sharply.   
  
"Oh, let's be serious, Charles! You're a yankee! He doesn't favor you any more than French bread at communion. He's already got a sour opinion of you, and if you don't take up the offer to attend a real Southern party, that's just going to cinch it."   
  
"Cinch.. what?"   
  
"Oh, Charles, we can't disclose information like that."   
  
Charles frowned uneasily. As infuriating as these plebians were, they did have a point. As begrudging as it was, the angry man HAD been hospitable enough to give him some sort of housing in a rather dangerous town.. and if something as inconsequential as attending a party could give him a more positive repoir with his employer... not, of course, that he worried about what the man thought about him! Certainly not.   
  
And then... it suddenly occurred to him that if the events of last night had, in fact, been reality, that meant that the prospect of meeting with Miss Magnolia's influential father was still a possibility! Oh, how foolish he'd nearly been!   
  
"Dear me, gentlemen.. please, do forgive my impoliteness. It would be an honor to attend."   
  
BJ and Hawkeye exchanged a glance and then smiled. Charles easily smiled back, thoughts of home and a gallant escape from this festering swamp filling his mind.   
  
"Well, the festivities begin immediately at noon, but we're planning on arriving a little early. Accompany us?" BJ asked.   
  
"I.... well, all right."   
  
"I dunno, Beej. Seemed like he agreed awfully easily. He must have something up his sleeve."   
  
BJ frowned. "I don't think this pretty silk frock would conceal anything very well."   
  
"Yankees, Beej. Can't trust 'em. Always got some devious plan... maybe he's going to single-handedly uproot all of Miss Magnolia's sweet potatoes and declare the vegetable garden for the empire of Boston."   
  
"Gentlemen, the hour grows late and I grow increasingly weary of your infantile banter. Would you be so kind as to direct me to a bathing facility?"   
  
Hawkeye raised one eyebrow. "Good idea.. what with how late you got back last night.. and not to mention you smell like--"   
  
"Hawk, what the man wants to do with liquor is his own business. There's a washtub behind the shed." BJ said helpfully.   
  
"A... washtub behind the shed." Charles repeated incredulously, the words streaming out with disgust.   
  
"That's exactly what I said!" BJ exclaimed.   
  
"P...Perhaps... I can make do.. by some other means.." Charles said absently, turning out the thought of bathing in a wooden tub behind the cracked and brittle structure that they so callously referred to as a "shed". He quickly turned back toward the tent and thanked the stars that he'd brought with cologne enough to scent his entire wardrobe and possibly all his bedclothes as well. He would undoubtedly put the fragrent liquid to good use today.  
  
"Charles, you're best off letting go of modesty if you ever want to survive around here!" Hawkeye called after him, folding his arms across his chest.   
  
As it turned out, Charles soon realized that truer words were never spoken.   
  
*** 


End file.
